Prelude to 309
Well dial-kiss-my-alasys went well. I am just waiting for my driver to get here.
"Oh driver? Do you think we could take a spin down to the short north for a quick happy time?" "What?" "Well fine you didn't have to put it that-a-way. Dick with ears I tell you."
What do I long for? I long for freedom. Freedom of pain and of benevolent incarceration. I want to know the now to the infinite consciousness of the groove man woman and child and beast would all live in harmony and then all we would hear is the screaming of the plants fruits and trees.
Apparently most facilities are not well informed or equipped handling a partially crippled individual who also has the ability to speak for him or herself, in other words an advocate for their own treatment.
Frankly the original statement is complete bullshit. If a facility such as a dialysis center has individuals or entire staffs that do not know how to handle partially handicapped people then someone seriously fucked up when hiring and those people that made a big deal out of not being able to move me from one chair to another or who would just argue with me about a way to get it done should be fired.
They don't know how to move me from a wheelchair to another chair. Today at the nursing home I got the chair next to the bed and slid myself over. At the dialysis place it was a completely different situation. The one woman immediately started in about how it was difficult transferring from the wheel chair to the dialysis chair. I'll continue here in a bit.
The man that drove me over knew what to do. I wrap my arms around his neck and he picks me up and moves me over. None of us was ready for the excruciating pain that followed and because of that I let out a yell and he put me right back down in the wheel chair. It felt like he literally pulled me apart. Like my ass stayed in the chair and he pulled the rest of me up.
This same unbelievably annoying woman that I mentioned previously started saying that they would have to start transporting me via paramedics. This is an additional cost to me because Medicare doesn't cover all transports via paramedics.
I tried to explain again. And there was again an argument.
It appears that all aspects of the medical industry have become so beat up by the hateful and belligerent nature of patients that one comment from a patient will immediately bring up an aggressive stance from the caregiver or the quality of the caregiver has deteriorated so much that you are truly in danger if you get sick or hurt. I promptly told this woman that if they would just take the time and listen to me we would get through this. Of course she didn't listen and drug my broken ass over without much regard to my protests of pain.
Everyone wants to hold someone else responsible so that the lines are completely blurred and as a result the patient’s care is not what is focused on. We are a society of blamers and finger pointers. We have become a bunch of sissies with big guns and little dicks. Well guess what. I don’t own a damn gun Ha!
Going by the heartland (Waking a second before the damn bomb)
What I remember most about being under our seats during the weekly nuclear bomb practice session is that even in the fifth grade and all the weird unknown shit of the sixties is that getting under our desks and covering our heads and not looking at the light wasn't going to keep us from becoming nice little piles of ash. I suppose that was the logic behind curling up into a ball. It would make counting the dead easier but then who would be alive to do the counting.
The day started with me not falling to sleep until four in the morning and the damn nurse waking me up at four fifteen to check my sugar. I'm pretty sure sleeping isn't going to raise my fucking sugar but I let her check it anyway.
January 23, 2014, I turned 59 god damn years old in a nursing home. I decided to just lay in this miserable bed until my daughter showed up for the celebrations she had planned. I even made the physical therapy hotties do the therapy in my bed. When it finally got close to the time I knew I would never make it through the evening without spewing vomit at least once.
My daughter got there with Wyeth and we set up in the common area to celebrate my birthday where the television was blasting and the inmates were all eating and laughing and fighting and wondering why they couldn't be in the common area for a while. As the noise and confusion got worse I could feel myself getting sicker and the nurse came up with this powdered stuff she put in chocolate milk and told me to drink it. I told her that if I drank it the concoction would make me sick. She told me that it was to take away sickness. I have heard this before.
The battle was lost. The fight would be futile at this point in the story. I simply picked up the glass of chocolate milk with the gravel swirling around and took a giant drink and shivered. I reached for the milk carton to pour more in the glass and set it down very quickly and puked all over the floor.
The next thing that happened was sort of miraculous. No one responded. Wyeth continued to eat cheesy puffs and watch me with curiosity. The Gang of broken, old and crazy never missed a beat. They just went about their business and Sunflower basically gave the nurse orders on what to do next and the nurse obeyed.
They put us in the lounge and shut the door and said we had an hour to celebrate my birthday. That is what we did.
I felt better and ate my shrimp tempura and the edamame and veggie spring roll along with a pot sticker and the crab Rangoon with Canada Dry sparkling seltzer water and sugar free chocolate cake.
It's funny how human nature kicks in when something beyond the norm happens. The lounge is not a popular hangout generally except for those who want to get online but when the room has been reserved and the door closed suddenly every inmate in the place wants to come into the lounge. While all that is going on outside the door which we were able to quite successfully ignore Wyeth was systematically tearing the room apart. He was being what sunflower called her little hurricane. It was mythic to watch.
What it made me think of was how sweet and happy sunflower was as a child but also how she was always moving and that was also me as a child and here now was Wyeth as the little hurricane. I also thought my dear mother raised four hurricanes and raised my dad as a hurricane and all the neighborhood boys who hung out at our house and it made sense why she had that look she now has on her face. Man what a great life and what a great birthday.
Back to 309
I’ve decided to start a club simply called The Bird club and this club originated from a wonderful woman I have the absolute honor to call a friend of unconditional love. She is one of a kind. I decided that those people who showed a friendship toward someone, in this case me, that exhibited the qualities of unconditional love would become a member of The Bird Club with the Karmic Kat.
How do I approach a view of Gallery 39 without sounding bitter? Hell who knows. Maybe I’ll just ramble on in pure bitter ravings of just how terrible that place did become.
I wanted to wash my hands of the whole thing and get on with my life especially since getting on with my life has been a year-long event of being near death three times. Funny how you can count the “friends” that dropped off each time it was told of my near death experience. Only one beautiful Bird and her Karmic Kat was left when it was all said and done.
So where did the name Gallery 309 come from? Well part of it came from Mr. Happy. I must say that Mr. Happy ended up being a true wise man through all of this. Mr. Happy only looked out for Mr. Happy and not in a selfish and self-centered way like the rest. He lived his life by instinct of survival. Mr. Happy made all those survivalist fuckwits look like the crybabies that they were.
Lets’ clear away the good souls so that we are only dealing with the garbage from five years of flea markets in three locations. I have already mentioned the Beautiful Bird and her Karmic Kat who is a true spirit and angel. Then there is the strong conviction of Mr. Happy and to set the record straight Mr. Happy and I came up with the name and the sign was actually made and given to me as a gift.
There is so much of this that cannot be fair to everyone. There were betrayals and renewed friendships that only dwindled away and there were true shit bags that had always been shit bags.
Out of all of this I have created a club called the Bird Club which is of course beautiful bird and her karmic Kat and those who are worthy of being members in this club. Mr. Happy is a member and Barbie just became a member tonight. Barbie never forgot about our friendship through all the bullshit.
Now it must be made clear that sunflower, Wyeth my grand and my daughter’s partner Legend and my first wife Mag are in a different club than the bird club. They are far above the bird club. They are family and unconditional love. The unconditional love is what attaches to the bird club but the family part is what sets these members apart which also includes my dear brother, his sons Tuck and Chuckles and his wonderful wife. My mother, my brother Thad and my brother Paul are also included in family. Now that we have that all straightened out…
Of course the wonder woman and her family who believed in God and believed that by praying to this God he would save my life belong somewhere, just not sure where at this point, and as far as the prayers go well who knows I’m still here. I still have some different beliefs on the whole subject though but, you were all kind and wonderful people who just got caught up in the madness of the disease that ran wild and still runs wild through that damnable market and it’s only a hand full of degenerates that spoiled the whole human stew but those few bad ingredients spoiled everything for a while.
Alas it is heartbreaking how we can get so lost so easily sometimes. We may have the best of intentions only to have those objectives turn against us and to harm those we love.
But I say unto all of you that the pervious statement is false! You can only be forgiven for denial for so long and then you must be confronted with the truth and man I confronted that little gang if only in my mind but now it’s time to pull away the covers and reveal the awful naked truth.
Let’s take on the big guns with little dicks first, those miserable cretins that call themselves survivalists. Let me tell you right here and right now you do not have a right to call yourselves survivors. Spend a God damn year in and out of hospitals and nursing homes and rehabs being near death three times and living daily the humiliation that goes with not even being able to wipe your own ass and you can then maybe be able to call yourself no wait, there are even those who could call me a sissy who have survived even greater struggles but the point being made is that a bunch of guys who dress up in matching outfits and buy big knives and even bigger guns and go out and kill something as beautiful as a dear not for need but for fun and who treat women with no respect along with treating those with different lifestyles and orientations so terribly, you are all such little Dicks with big ears.
Guess that is all for now.
Cool peace
Groovy times
Hippy times
Love
Spirit
Peace